Numb no more
by somanyhands
Summary: It's been three years since Sherlock jumped, and John isn't doing so good. Warning for self-harm and suicidal tendencies. Do NOT read if this affects you! (It was intended to be a standalone chapter but...well, something happened!)
1. Chapter 1

**_Warnings for self-harm and suicidal tendencies. Do NOT read if this affects you._**

**_You have been warned_**

* * *

John hissed as the blade carved a clean slice through fading tanned flesh.

It felt like fire. Beautiful, all-consuming fire, and for the first time in 3 years, John _felt_.

John felt something. He felt alive.

Since Sherlock had jumped, John had been numb. He had locked himself away in his small flat in south London, unable to keep up the rent on 221B alone despite Mrs Hudson's kind allowances, and he had faded.

He had faded away from soldier; doctor; blogger; friend of Sherlock Holmes to nothing.

He became nothing; no one; unimportant.

He became a ghost of himself.

Numb.

After the initial period of grief and pain, he felt nothing, and for a while, it was a relief. Relief from the haunting visions, terrifying dreams and the suicidal thoughts. Even his pistol had become long-forgotten.

But now, now he needed to feel.

He needed to feel something; anything.

He wiped the dust from his laptop and loaded up his blog, noting the three-year-old last entry and smiling fondly at the photo of Sherlock; his friend; his _best_ friend.

He became painfully aware of his inability to feel. He had spent so long; so long blocking it all out that he had forgotten how to unlock it again.

He wanted; he _needed_.

He looked at the blade and then down at his arm, watching the crimson flow slip down along the creases of his elbow and drip onto the table.

It was mesmerising; captivating; beautiful.

And all of a sudden he _felt_. He felt everything.

Deep; hard; painful; outside; inside; everywhere.

He wanted more. He wanted so much more.


	2. Chapter 2

"You don't think...?"

Sherlock couldn't finish his thought. He knew that Mycroft wouldn't need him to. They had both watched the footage together. They had seen. They knew.

"Sherlock." his brother replied, his tone a clear warning. A warning not to do whatever it was Sherlock was thinking. "You can't. Not yet."

Sherlock took a long drink of his Scotch, refusing to meet his brother's gaze. He felt torn. Torn between his duty; his need to finish the work he was doing; to eliminate their final target, Sebastian Moran, and coming home. Home to London; to John; to Baker Street.

He cast his eyes over the Budapest skyline out of the oversized hotel room window. He was sick of it all now. He truly didn't know how much longer he could stand it. Being away from his life; their life.

Three long years. It was so long. Too long. Painfully long.

He'd watched John grieve. He'd expected that. He had almost returned from Islamabad when he saw John handling his pistol with a look of longing. Sherlock watched the expression on John's face shift between pain and desperation before something happened. Something changed, and suddenly John became blank; expressionless; lifeless despite his still beating heart.

Mycroft had studied his brother as he watched his flatmate become an automaton; a ghost; a shell of his former self. He had watched Sherlock take on the once pained expression of his doctor as John's own face became a blank canvas, showing nothing.

Now though, Mycroft was playing devil's advocate. Sherlock had to finish this. He needed to ensure that it was safe to return before he did anything rash. Mycroft had tried intervene in the past, only to be met with an eerie yet hostile calm. It was uneasy; awkward; impossible. It was evident that John still held Mycroft responsible for Sherlock's death, and nothing would change that.

But Sherlock, he could not return yet. He knew that. He turned from the twinkling lights of the Hungarian capital and looked at his brother.

"I know, Mycroft." he said quietly and painfully. "I know."


	3. Chapter 3

He buzzed again, stepping back and looking up at the tall building, as if he could ascertain which one was John's just from the outside.

No answer again. Maybe he should have called first.

"Can I help you?"

The voice startled him as it approached from behind. A middle-aged woman with peroxide blonde hair and a generous girth was studying him suspiciously. Greg began to wonder even more at the accuracy of the address he had been given.

"Thank you." he said, retrieving his badge from his pocket and showing it to the woman, noting her beginning to shuffle nervously, "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm looking for the man who lives in flat 7C. A Doctor John Watson?"

"A doctor?" she replied, raising her eyebrows. "I didn't know we had a doctor here."

Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes, putting his badge away before looking up again at the building's bleak façade.

"Right, well, he doesn't appear to be answering. Any chance you could let me in the building so I can go and check if he is home?"

"He in trouble?" Peroxide woman asked curiously, moving past Greg and slipping her key into the lock, giving the steel framed door a hard shove with her shoulder to push it open.

He hadn't seen John for over 6 months. The doctor had not taken Sherlock's death well. Greg had grieved along with him to begin with but, as Greg and others seemed to be moving on, John withdrew, became almost a recluse. He quit his job, didn't come out to the pub and rarely answered his phone.

When he moved out of 221B, twelve months after Sherlock jumped, Greg had hoped that it signalled a new beginning for John, but he had rarely been seen since.

It took several requests to Sherlock's brother for Greg to find out anything about John's life now. Mycroft was keeping a check on his brother's former flatmate and had initially brushed off Greg's concerns but, when Mycroft himself called Greg, giving him the doctor's new address and requesting that he check on John himself, Greg began to really worry.

Greg let out a sigh as he followed peroxide woman into the building and headed towards the stairwell.

"I hope not."


	4. Chapter 4

John flicked the ring pull mindlessly, wallowing in the relentless "ping ping ping" of aluminium against aluminium. He lifted the can and drained the remaining third of the cider in one long gulp.

It tasted bitter and cheap, just like he felt.

He let the can drop alongside the armchair, listening to it clank as it landed amongst the others. John peered briefly over the side to look. Eleven empty cans lay in a disorderly pile, several of them leaking stale cider dregs into the worn carpet.

"Fuck." he cursed, spinning his body around the front of the chair and kneeling on the floor, righting the dripping cans against the tatty fabric chair's side.

For a long moment, he just knelt there. He looked at the line up, studying the rise and fall of the uneven height cider cans of differing brands. He lifted the taller cans and stacked them at the back, bringing the shorter ones to the front. Then he shuffled them again, lining them up in a tall-short-tall-short alternating pattern. Then he stacked them into a pyramid, revelling in the fact that even the unevenly-sized cans allowed him to do so but cursing once more when he realised he had one can left over. He attempted to stack it on top of the single-layered top can.

The whole lot came crashing down onto the floor.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he swore again, reaching out and smacking the pile with his fist.

Then he felt it. The sting. The familiar burn. The rush.

He drew his left arm to himself and examined it. A long, clean cut along the side of his hand, probably caused by a wayward ring pull. It was beginning to bleed quite badly and, as John pressed the fingers of his right hand to it, he let out a hiss as the pain came sharp and hard.

The deep crimson was the last thing he had of Sherlock. It was his one final connection to his flatmate. The one lasting image that haunted his every waking moment and every nightmare. Blood. Deep, dark, sticky, red. The one thing that held Sherlock close to him. That linked them together.

He looked again at the cut, the blood and the pile of empty cans and nodded as he reached for the top one.

More. He needed more.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft watched intently as John carved vicious line after line into his fading tanned arms. Thank god Sherlock wasn't home. He didn't want his brother to have witnessed this. When Sherlock returned shortly, Mycroft would be compelled to lie and say all had been quiet, hoping that Sherlock didn't spend too long trying to deduce whether or not his brother was telling the truth.

Mycroft winced as he watched John get more and more aggressive with himself, wondering whether he ought to step in and do something. He was suddenly very grateful for his earlier decision to call Gregory and ask him to check on the doctor.

With luck, Sherlock would only need a few more days to remove Moran. He could be back in London within the week, but John needed help before then. That was becoming very apparent.

He glanced at the grand clock in his office. Where was Greg? He ought to have been there by now.

His attention was once more drawn to the monitor as John stood, removed his old grey t shirt and wrapped it around his tortured and bleeding arm. Mycroft let out a sigh of relief as the doctor stood and headed to his closet, removing a first aid kit and treating the wounds careful with iodine before lightly bandaging them and slipping a new shirt on.

It was over. For now.

Mycroft crossed the office and poured himself a drink. Neither Holmes had expected, when Sherlock first jumped from St. Bart's, that three years later, he would still be away. They had anticipated twelve months at the most, but when Sherlock had stumbled across Irene Adler while hunting the second sniper in Islamabad, everything had fallen apart. She so very nearly blew his cover, and he so very nearly let her. Mycroft cursed "The Woman" and her power over his brother. He didn't understand it, of course. How somebody like Sherlock could be so affected by a mere woman, even one as smart as Irene Adler, Mycroft could not fathom. He took a long drink of his Scotch and let his eyes drift again to the monitor on the table.

John appeared to have fallen asleep. The cans were all cleared away and he was re-dressed in a clean(-ish!) shirt with no evidence of the previous hour's activities.

Mycroft sank back into his chair and let his own eyes close. Hopefully Greg would arrive soon.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg stood outside flat 7C and licked his lips. His eyes travelled up and down the dark, gloomy corridor and his heart sank at the knowledge of how far his friend had fallen.  
As he raised his hand to knock, he took a deep breath, pausing a moment before letting his knuckles make contact with the grey door.

Only seconds later, he heard movement from inside the flat. So John was home. Greg briefly felt anxious wondering if perhaps John had deliberately ignored the buzzer from downstairs and began to worry about how well-received his visit would be.

He listened to the turning of locks and the door creaked slightly in objection as it was pulled open from the inside.

Nobody spoke for a long moment, Greg barely hiding the shock at the sight of his friend. John looked terrible. His face was almost grey in colour with dark circles under his eyes and more-than-two-day-old stubble. He was dressed in a barely-clean, pale blue shirt and grey cargo trousers. His feet were bare and his hair looked unkempt.

"Greg?" the doctor asked, rubbing his hands over his confused face as if he didn't quite recognise the Detective Inspector.

"John." Greg responded, equal monosyllabic as he tried to disguise his instinctive shocked reaction and waited to see if John would invite him in.

"I was just... I was passing."

Greg knew he didn't sound convincing, but John barely seemed to notice. He just stood back from the open doorway to let Greg pass, which he did with a sigh of relief. It was something. John was letting him into his flat.

Now Greg just needed to see if John would let him back into his life.


	7. Chapter 7

"I asked Gregory to check on him."

Mycroft eyed Sherlock warily as he entered the hotel room and slung his bag down by the door. He wasn't sure what his little brother's reaction would be to Mycroft's attempts to check on John.

Sherlock's face gave nothing away as he all but ignored Mycroft and turned towards the bathroom.

"I need a shower."

Mycroft nodded and heard the door lock before the shower clicked on. Sherlock had looked different; less agitated; done. Sherlock had looked done.

He turned his attention back to the monitor, while he waited for his brother to finish, and noticed John heading to the front door. _Gregory_, Mycroft thought to himself. Finally.

The camera angles made seeing the flat's entrance difficult, but he didn't have to wait long before both John and Greg came into clear view. Mycroft leaned forwards, curious to see how John would behave, and gave a small chuckle when the doctor headed towards the small kitchenette to make tea. Old habits die hard.

Within a couple of minutes, the two men were sitting on opposite chairs, the only chairs in the flat, John sitting on the same chair that, just moments before, had been the sign of such pain.

"Has he said anything?"

Mycroft jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice behind him. He glanced round to see his brother towel-drying his hair and leaning down towards the monitors.

"Not yet." Mycroft responded, "But he made tea."

As if that made everything all OK.


	8. Chapter 8

"How've you been?"

Greg knew the question was lame. It didn't sound any better as he said it than it sounded in his head, but he was struggling to find the right words to say. What do you say to someone who is so obviously still suffering? Anything Greg came up with would sound trite.

John gave a short, bark of laughter.

"Yeah," he replied, taking a drink of his tea and wishing with all his might that it was something stronger. "I've been just... great."

The sarcasm wasn't lost on either man. Greg winced as he said it, and John lowered his head.

"Sorry." the doctor said quietly, leaning forwards to lower his tea cup onto the coffee table between them before slumping back in his chair.

"Yeah. Sorry, mate." Greg agreed, placing his own mug alongside John's but staying leant towards his friend. "You know I'm here for you, John. If you need..."_ Need what, Greg?_ he asked himself, "... if you need anything. To talk... whatever."

John slowly raised his head and looked at Greg. He braced himself to see sorrow; disgust; pity. He didn't want to be pitied. He hated it. What he actually saw in Greg's face was pure and genuine concern of one friend for another. A small part of John relaxed. A part he had been completely unaware of. He suddenly felt... different; safer; no longer... alone.

Greg waited silently, not wanting to push John into anything he wasn't ready for. It was obvious now that Mycroft had known there was something going on with John. Greg didn't know whether the Holmes had John's flat bugged or not, but he suspected he probably did. As he looked at John's face, watching his expression pass from guarded to something softer, something more open, he wondered what exactly Mycroft had seen over the past days, weeks or months. He cursed himself for not pushing for John's details and calling on him sooner.

John's next words were quiet as they broke Greg away from his thoughts.

"I think I need help."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was ready.

It'd been three days since Greg had called round to see John and, in those three days, John had left his flat for the first time in weeks. He had visited his doctor and made an appointment to see his therapist and, so Mycroft had later found out, had been referred to a specialist for help with his current 'problems'.

It'd also been three days since Sherlock had eliminated the one final threat to his friends in London. It had been tricky to track Sebastian Moran through the Hungarian capital. The city was rife with Moriarty's web, and he'd had to dispose of several other people in his quest to reach Moran. He had managed it eventually though, and now he was in a position to return to London; to John.

He looked back at the monitors as he folded the last of his things into the small case. He hadn't travelled with much during the past few years. Mycroft had usually arranged for things to be temporarily brought to him wherever he stayed meaning that his own actual belongings were few. He held one of those few items in his hand, a photo of John and himself that Mrs Hudson had taken the last Christmas they were together and had framed for them. John was wearing those ridiculous reindeer antlers, and Sherlock was eyeing them suspiciously. Sherlock smiled at the expression on John's face. It showed true happiness and excitement. It was an expression he had not seen on his doctor; his blogger; his friend for a long time. Three years. Three long years. Too long.

He lowered the picture into his case and flipped over the lid, pulling the zip around and lifting it down onto the floor.

He would see John's face lit up like that again.

He would.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock gave the address to the taxi driver and settled himself into the back seat. As he watched the grey London streets pass by, he truly felt like he was coming home. For a brief moment, he wished it was Baker Street he was heading to, but he was only too well aware of why it wasn't.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone and the key that Mycroft had given to him. He had obtained a key for both John's building and his flat after Greg had called round. Greg had relayed his very clear concern about John and had almost ordered Mycroft - Sherlock wished he had been present for that conversation - to get keys made in case anybody needed to get in. As Sherlock fiddled with them in his hand, he felt anxious. He really wasn't sure what kind of reception he would get from the man who had thought him dead for so long. The man who had inadvertently caused his life to completely derail.

For a moment, Sherlock felt self-doubt. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea. Maybe Mycroft should have told John about Sherlock first. He glanced outside, realising it was too late for second thoughts now. He had to get back to John; to show him there was still something worth living for; to bring him back to life.

The phone in his hand began to vibrate, disturbing his train of thought.

"Yes?" he said quietly, his hesitation and tone both giving away his nerves.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was controlled, of course it was, but it also held something else; something important, "How far away from John are you?"

Sherlock peered out at the streets, identifying landmarks and noting street names and calling on his rusty south London knowledge in order to reply.

"Five minutes." he responded, double-checking his bearings as the taxi made a right turn, "I think."

Mycroft was silent for a minute before speaking again.

"I hope that isn't too long, Sherlock." he eventually said, and the soft sound of silence indicated that he had rung off.

Sherlock knew exactly what Mycroft meant.  
He hoped so too.


	11. Chapter 11

John sat in the chair, looking out at the darkening grey South London skies.

It looked like he felt. Dark; grey; miserable.

Pointless, John thought. It's all pointless.

He'd had moments of hope after Greg called round. Fleeting moments when he saw light where previously there had been only dark. Minutes when he actually believed that he could get through this. Break out of this prison of grief and despair.

And then came the confusion. How could he possibly?  
Sherlock would always still be dead.

Maybe numb had been better.  
Numb had helped him to live; kept him alive.  
But then, then there had been release.  
The adrenaline; the endorphins; the release from the absolutely nothingness.

His eyes flickered towards the bathroom.  
It was there. It was all right there. Everything he needed.  
Everything he needed to just end this.  
To just end this emptiness; this pain and suffering; this pointless life.

Right here. Right now.

He stood and walked to the bathroom...


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock silently cursed his shaking hands as he pushed the key into the steel-framed door. He gave it a hard push, and it opened with a reluctant groan.

_God_, he thought, _everything about this building was truly depressing._

He took a deep breath and began climbing the stairs, texting Mycroft as he did so.

_I'm on my way up now - SH_

The reply came in only second later as if his brother had been waiting for the communication.

_Be quick, brother._

Sherlock felt his heart rate quicken, and his stomach turned as he tried not to dwell on the implications of that statement and concentrate on what he had to do. He needed to get to John. He needed to show John. He needed to...

Seventh floor. He was here.

Sherlock quickly identified flat 7C and, for a short moment, wondered if he ought to knock first. Maybe he shouldn't just go in, Perhaps John would just answer anyway.

As if reading his mind, his phone buzzed in his hand.

_Don't wait, Sherlock. Just go in - MH_

_Right then,_ Sherlock thought, and he put the key into the grey door, turning it and pushing it open. It creaked noisily and Sherlock groaned, hoping for a minute that John wouldn't still have his pistol to hand. He figured not and carried on into the room, letting the door close behind him.

Sherlock frowned as he realised that John wasn't in the room. He was surely home, Mycroft was undoubtedly watching him, but a quick look revealed that he was neither in the lounge or the kitchenette or in the small bedroom off the main living area.

Bathroom.

Sherlock's stomach lurched at the realisation. He was in the bathroom. And Mycroft knew why. That's why...

In almost simultaneous fast-forward and slow-motion, Sherlock crossed to the bathroom and pushed open the door.

On front of him, in the dingy little room, sat John Watson. Captain John Watson. Doctor John Watson. His friend, a ghost of himself sitting, eyes closed and face pale, on the closed toilet seat, holding a shaky blade to his wrist. Sherlock gasped as he watched the crimson fluid begin to flow, circling John's wrist and dropping in small drips onto the tiled floor.

At the sound of footsteps approaching him in the bathroom, John opened his eyes and looked up.

He looked up and saw him; saw his dead friend; he saw... Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock's voice was breathy and harsh; broken as he reached down and carefully plucked the blade from John's hand, leaving the doctor sitting motionless on the toilet, his hand frozen in the position it had been in as he cut.

"John." Sherlock repeated, placing the blade in the sink and kneeling down, taking John's hands in his own, not caring that the still-shallow cuts John had started were beginning to bleed onto his own hands. "John, it's me. I'm so sorry. I'm so..." his voice wavered, cracking under the pressure of the overwhelming emotions running through him, "I'm so sorry."

His face fell, and his eyes closed against the tears which threatened. He knew it was bad, but seeing him, seeing John like this. It was too much.

He fought back the emotions with difficulty, wondering whether John was too far gone to notice.

It had been too long. He was too late.

Then he felt it. It was so slight that he almost wondered if he had imagined it, but then it happened again. A squeeze of the hand; both hands.

John was squeezing his hands. He was seeing him. He was feeling him.

Sherlock raised his head again, looking at John's face and watching his expression change.

He knew. John knew. He could see it in his eyes that he knew.

"Sherlock?"


End file.
